


In between [there was you]

by zanzibar



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: “I was worried you were going to be late,” Jon admits, leaning back to crack open the Diet Coke and raising an eyebrow at Tommy.  “Dan had to reassure me that Alyssa was in the Situation Room with you and she would drag you out of any meeting, come hell or high water, or I mean Putin or whatever.”In which Jon and Tommy make promises.  Forever.





	In between [there was you]

**Author's Note:**

> *slowly dips my big toe into a new fandom*
> 
> Title from a bastardized Ben Rector lyric.
> 
> Inspired by this photo 
> 
>   
> and [this](https://www.politico.com/tipsheets/playbook/2015/07/fireworks-edition-revealed-a-clandestine-gay-wedding-in-the-white-house-during-obamas-first-term-officiant-jon-lovett-christie-to-return-to-morning-joe-after-18-months-scott-walker-joins-sn-212543) article

“You know this suddenly feels like a bigger deal than I thought it would,” Jon turns away from where he’s been trying to identify the people currently standing on the other side of the portico based on their hairstyles and their semi-formally-clad backs. His dad laughs under his breath while his mom slaps his bicep, before sliding her hand down his arm to entwine their fingers.

“I can’t believe you aren’t wearing a jacket,” his mom tuts as she adjusts the collar of his shirt, flattens the collar of his sweater, too much longer alone in this room and she’s going to check to make sure his socks match and he hasn’t missed a belt loop. “This is the White House Jonathan.”

“I don’t work here anymore,” Jon shrugs, “I don’t have to wear a jacket.”

“You should still respect the office,” she checks her watch, “Trevor respects the office,” she gestures to the young man in a suit and tie sprawled in one of the chairs checking his phone.

Trevor is Alyssa’s assistant, and as far as Jon can tell, his main job for at least the past 10 minutes has been handing out bottled water, making sure nobody comes into the press secretary’s office and checking his twitter and text messages.

“Two minutes,” Trevor says, not looking up from instagram.

“Jesus,” Jon mutters under his breath, trying not to notice that the tips of his fingers have started to tingle with misplaced adrenaline.

Trevor’s phone buzzes with an incoming text message. “Time to go,” he looks up this time, face splitting into a grin as he gestures them out the door to cut through the Cabinet Room and walk outside.

There’s no swell of music so it feels surreal to walk between his parents down the Colonnade, his mom’s hand small and warm in his, her heels clipping along the tiles, his dad’s shoulder solid on his other side. There are tulips blooming across the gardens, early spring in DC unseasonably warm, for once, after what felt like an absolutely eternal winter. The doors click closed silently behind them and the shadow of the Executive Residence looms in the corner of his eye.

But he looks up when his mom gasps quietly and squeezes his hand. And then he isn’t thinking about any of those things anymore, he’s walking toward Tommy.

Tommy and his mom are walking together and Jon spares a minute thinking about how ridiculously attractive they both are, sunny smiles and perfectly coiffed, like a Tommy Hilfiger political ad, strolling out from the doors just outside the Oval Office into the sunshine.

Both families meet in the middle, and spend a few minutes, awkward and unplanned, in a flurry of hugging and cheek kissing. Tommy presses a kiss to his mom’s forehead, wipes a tear from her cheek before turning to Jon and cracking a grin - “ready to do this.”

Jon nods and they walk down the stairs hand in hand to take their place in front of the judge.

Jon feels like there’s too many places to look as he stands across from Tommy, the soft grass under his dress shoes and the cherry blossoms about to explode on the tree above them, the white of Tommy’s shirt, stark against the navy suit he wasn’t wearing when he left the house this morning. Their friends and family assembling to fill the space they’d just walked through, the musical montage for this episode of his life, albeit one he would never have had the courage to write. Alyssa tucking her phone in her sweater and leaning against one of the pillars outside the Oval while Dan shoves his hands in his pockets and stands just behind her. Jon and Emily framed by a doorway, Ezra wrapped in a green blanket snoozing against Jon’s shoulder. Faces from Crooked, from LA, from The Resistance. From DC the first time and DC this time.

And Tommy.

Tommy standing across from him, one too many shirt buttons unbuttoned to actually be work appropriate, hands warm and steady, the late afternoon sun tips toward golden and as they grin at each other he can hear Alyssa sniffle, Pete’s camera clicking away, his nephew’s giggle, his mom’s familiar shushing.

And then, in the shadow of the West Wing, they get married.

Jon never thought of this place as home the way Jon and Tommy did. The way Alyssa does and Dan probably always will. He did good work, he wrote important words and good jokes and maybe started to find a voice within these walls, but he knows now, with the benefit of age, that he didn’t really find his voice until years later. Yet this is the place that brought him Jon, and with Jon came Tommy. And maybe the White House was never home but standing with Tommy on the lawn of the Rose Garden in front of their family and friends, vowing to cherish and protect each other for eternity feels a lot like coming home.

///

They’re done in less than 15 minutes. The White House echoes with Friday afternoon quiet as they walk inside to sign the ketubah and the marriage license on Alyssa’s desk, just a stone's throw from the Oval Office.

Emily signs her name on the marriage license with a flourish and turns impishly to smile at them. She quickly and unceremoniously shoves them toward Tommy’s office with a wink, “15 minutes boys. Don’t miss your ride.”

Jon boosts himself up on the edge of Tommy’s desk, watching as he closes the door and pulls a Diet Coke from the minifridge in the corner and comes to stand between his legs. Tommy sets the can next to Jon’s hip and presses their lips together. “Hi,”

“Hi,” Jon tries to go for mocking but it falls flat because he can’t wipe the ridiculous grin off his face. “That’s not what you were wearing when you left for work this morning. I know. Because I was there.”

“You weren’t wearing anything when I left this morning,” Tommy leans in for another kiss. “That was better.” Jon laughs bright and loud and wraps his arms companionably around Tommy’s waist.

“It was more inappropriate for sure,”

“Hi,” Jon leans forward, smoothing a hand down the front of Tommy’s shirt. “You look hot.”

“Hi,” Tommy meets him in the middle, “you look hotter.” He steals a kiss, nipping at Jon’s lip and soothing it with the bright pass of his tongue. Jon pulls him back for more, one kiss drifting into another until it’s no longer clear how much time has passed.

“I was worried you were going to be late,” Jon admits, leaning back to crack open the Diet Coke and raising an eyebrow at Tommy. “Dan had to reassure me that Alyssa was in the Situation Room with you and she would drag you out of any meeting, come hell or high water, or I mean Putin or whatever.”

“First of all,” Tommy takes the can out of Jon’s hand, takes a sip and then kisses him again, “it was just prepping POTUS and the principles for their meetings at the UN tomorrow. But more importantly,” Tommy presses featherlight kisses down the tendon of his neck, “continuing with the metaphors, wild horses couldn’t have kept me away.”

Tommy tucks his head against Jon’s shoulder and Jon threads his fingers through the short hairs at the base of his neck. “I love you,” he buries against Jon’s sweater. “So much,”

Emily knocks on the door. “Two minute warning lovebirds,”

Jon hops off the desk and throws open the door, laughing when Emily shrieks a little in surprise, “what exactly do you think is going on in here.”

“Listen,” Emily says giggling, “they didn’t tell me much more than that the newlyweds take a traditional 15 minutes to themselves immediately after the ceremony and someone should make sure no one disturbed them.”

“Well obviously we’re banging like bunnies in here,” Jon gestures to Tommy’s tiny office, stuffed with a desk, 3 chairs, an overflowing bookshelf and a table covered in papers. “It’s a romantic locale if you ask me.”

“Jesus Lovett,” Tommy groans, rounding the desk to grab his coat and bag.

Tommy stuffs 2 binders, the NSA ipad, his phone and wallet into his messenger bag and slings it over his shoulder. Shutting off the lights and holding Lovett’s hand as they walk the halls toward the driveway, the familiar and the changed juxtaposing unexpectedly before Jon’s eyes, a place and a time in his life he doesn’t often remember clearly and yet can never seem to forget.

///

“It’s a weird thing when you return to the same line of work you had 6 years ago,” Jon begins, as the crowd settles down around them. Their favorite bar in Georgetown closed down for the night, tables filled with family and friends and good food and drinks. “Anyway. It’s weird to come back to what feels like a previous life only to find that it’s all different, but it’s also still the same. It’s weird to move back to this town that changed your life, but you swore you’d never come back to and find out that the public transportation is still a clusterfuck. The weather is terrible and somehow you’ve returned to a job you couldn’t imagine you’d ever have again. But somehow all of that is overshadowed by how unexpectedly incredible it is when two of the best things in your life, two constants, two anchors. When your two best friends finally get their shit together and realize they’re in love.” Tommy toasts his glass toward Jon and wraps an arm around Lovett’s shoulder. “And just like the job it turns out that the friendships you’ve had for more than a decade are different, but still exactly the same. And to know that like the job, those friends have absolutely changed your life, that the job will always be a shadow to the people it brought into your life - and that’s exactly the way it’s supposed to be.” Jon takes a quick sip of his beer before continuing. “I’ve known both of you for long enough to be able to say without reservation that you aren’t perfect _for_ each other, you are perfect _with_ each other. There is no one who deserves happiness more than the two of you and I could not feel any luckier, any more privileged, anymore thankful, than to know that you are mine.”

The crowd raises their glasses and cheers as Tommy and Jon kiss. Jon wipes his eyes and hugs them both. Handing the microphone to Tommy, where Jon can snatch it without ever really trying.

“Thomas Fredrick Vietor IV. I did not mean to fall in love with you,” Jon takes a sip of his drink and looks out into the crowd. “It was really an almost unfortunate accident. You were not what I wanted,” Tommy takes this in stride, hearts eyes shining for Jon alone even in front of everyone they know. “You were more than I ever imagined wanting, because you were already the target audience for at least 70 percent of my jokes, you were the person who believed in me when there was no possible reason to do so and the person who was never unwilling to play pragmatist to my all encompassing idealism. I believed that falling in love with you would mean somehow sacrificing all of that. Losing my best friend. And thank god for Dan who, with the benefit of wisdom and distance, could assure me that wasn’t the case and for Emily who has the grace to believe that love can and will conquer nearly everything and also maintains the convenience of being married to our other best friend. Tommy,” Jon shoves his notecards in his back pocket and reaches for Tommy’s hand. “I don’t promise to always agree with you but I promise to always listen, I don’t promise that I won’t wear sweatpants in public sometimes or that I will always remember to put my dishes in the dishwasher but I promise that our electronics will always work, I will make you laugh at least once a day, I will sit on the couch with you while you watch football and I will always weigh your opinion before I make a decision. And most importantly,” Jon’s voice betrays him as he swallows over the lump in his throat. “I promise to always be yours.”

“Lovett,” someone in the back laughs out loud, “Jon,” Tommy’s grin softens. “The last time we lived here it felt like the world was coming apart at the seams and most days I had to hold it together with a mostly used roll of duct tape and sheer force of my will. And looking at old photos it looks like I was probably coming apart at the seams too.” Jon nods at that and imagines that somewhere in the crowd Tommy’s mom and sister are nodding emphatically too. “After I left the White House I came to California and I spent a week in your guest room. It didn’t have a lamp or curtains or really anything but a mattress on the floor. But by the third day I didn’t feel like I was going to shatter anymore and it felt more like home than anywhere I’d slept in the past 7 years. And that was because of you.” Tommy gracefully tucks his notes into his breast pocket and presses a kiss to Lovett’s cheek, “I promise to laugh at most of your jokes and listen to most of your rants and never forget Diet Coke at the grocery store. I have loved you for more than a decade, but today I have been in love with you for 949 days and I will choose you again and again, everyday, for the rest of our lives.”

The party is perfect. Lovett dances, he dances with his mom and Tommy’s mom and both his sister and Tommy’s. He dances to a Taylor Swift song with Emily and a Pitbull song with Jon. He wraps himself in Tommy and doesn’t care who sees, who looks, it’s his wedding, it’s his day. Tommy is his and he wants everyone to know.

He sneaks into the alley behind the bar with Tommy, Tommy dragging him away, leaving the warm crushing echo of their friends laughing and drinking behind for the whisper of city streets and the light falling rain. Tucked under an awning they kiss until Jon’s lips are buzzing and there’s a telltale flush creeping down Tommy’s chest.

“I like this,” Jon nudges the fabric aside to press a kiss to the center of Tommy’s sternum.

“I love you,” Tommy threads a hand through Jon’s curls to kiss him one more time.

“We’re heading out,” Alyssa flags Tommy down when they’re trying to sneak back in, laughing outright at Tommy’s even more unbuttoned shirt and Jon’s disheveled hair. “There’s a car to take you home,”

Dan’s holding Howli’s coat, steadfast and true as always, but he’s had enough to drink that he smiles more and he doesn’t hesitate before he pulls both Jon and Tommy into rib-cracking hugs. Howli showers them with kisses and hugs and thinly veiled threats about not skipping their next get-together night.

Alyssa hands Tommy back his wallet when he hugs her. She laughs her familiar laugh when he looks around her as if his bag is going to magically appear. “You’re off til Monday,” she shrugs. She glares when Tommy opens his mouth to try to protest. “This is Dan and I’s wedding gift to you,” she says firmly. “Someone else will be in charge for 48 hours. The President is in Paris and the world isn’t coming apart at the seams at this moment.”

“Guys,” Tommy begins, “not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but - “

He trails off as Dan holds up a hand, “there’s a red phone in your kitchen and you have a very capable deputy. You don’t get to go to Italy for 2 weeks Tommy, or even sit on a beach for 9 days. You get to go home and I promise that someone will come get you without question if there is an actual national emergency. Alyssa’s taking your phone because neither of us trust you not to check your email.” Tommy fidgets like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands without a phone to turn over in them, “you can have everything back Sunday afternoon so you can prep for the PDB.”

///

The party’s still going strong when they duck out the back door - accepting 2 unopened bottles of champagne from one of the bartenders and sneaking out with as little fanfare as they can. Their friend groups are still mixing and mingling together, embracing another reunion nearly 5 years after Emily and Jon’s wedding

“I’m starving,” Jon admits, as soon as they’re in the car pulling away from the curb. “Did you eat,” Jon rolls his head against the headrest to look at Tommy, unsurprised to find Tommy already looking at him.

“Some,” Tommy admits, “Alyssa basically forced a sandwich and an apple down my throat between meetings.”

“I’ll order thai,” Jon says, pulling out his phone to make the order.

“Awesome,” Tommy rests his head against the headrest the quiet of the car a shock after an evening of raucous noise.

“It is unexpected to me,” Jon interrupts the silence to look up from where he’s been sprawled across the seat, eyes closed against the combination of alcohol, an empty stomach and the low burn of motion sickness, “how attractive I find you wearing a wedding ring.”

Tommy’s face must do something strange because Lovett sits up to explain. “I just mean,” he takes a deep breath, “I’ve never doubted that you were mine. I mean I have. Because you’re you and I’m me, and this entire thing has occasionally seemed very unlikely. But I’ve never had anything but faith in you and in us. But. It turns out that a tangible symbol that you belong to me is something that I find unexpectedly attractive.”

“I like it too,” Tommy reaches over to thread their fingers together. “As much as I like knowing that we’re going home together right now to our house, where I live, with my husband.”

They’re quiet for most of the remaining drive, Jon turning the word _husband_ over and over in his brain, unexpected, Favs had said. But perfect too.

///

In the morning Jon wakes up to Tommy crawling back into bed, a large, steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He sets the coffee on the nightstand and curls his body around Jon’s, tucking his nose against the back of Jon’s neck and wrapping an arm around his waist.

They must drift back sleep for a little longer, because Jon wakes up warm and comfortable again and the light across their bedroom wall has shifted. He checks his messages quickly, scanning through texts and instagram before opening twitter.

Tommy wakes up a few minutes later, stirring softly and pulling Jon tighter against his chest.

“Our wedding is on twitter,” Jon says, and imagines Tommy wrinkling his nose and cracking one eye open behind him, “Maggie Haberman is tweeting about who was at our wedding reception, which is a weird fucking sentence to say out loud.”

Tommy doesn’t tweet anymore. He does. But only in an official format and with significantly less profanity. Consistently cognizant that everything he does is the property of the American people. That his words reflect that sworn duty.

But Lovett does.

“Can I,” Lovett starts almost unsure of what he’s going to ask, a half-formed idea about the difference between secrecy and privacy warring in separate corners of his mind.

“If you want,” Tommy yawns, propping himself up on a pillow and reaching for the coffee.

“I think I do,” he shrugs, thumbing open his email to a message he vaguely remembers seeing last night, sometime after they made good use of the wall next to their front door and the couch in the sitting room just off the foyer. But before they finally made it upstairs and into their bed, champagne and takeout still abandoned on the island in the kitchen.

Lovett chooses a picture from the preview Pete sent while they were still at the reception. It’s a wide shot taken from the back corner of the Rose Garden and it captures their solemn promises and their guests there to witness it. It’s far enough away that their faces aren’t clear, maintaining the privacy that Jon will always crave but the scene is obvious enough to answer most of the questions. He types and deletes and types and deletes until Tommy leans over to take the phone out of his hands. Jon takes the coffee cup and watches as Tommy deletes Jon’s words and types something else quickly, tipping the screen so Jon can see. Jon snorts as he tucks himself under Tommy’s arm. He takes a sip of the now lukewarm coffee and Tommy presses the tweet button and a kiss against his curls.

_Not clandestine this time._


End file.
